It takes Tim ten seconds longer than he'll ever admit before he understands what's going on.
Even then, he almost allows himself to get lost in the moment as his awareness floods with unexpected sensation: the brush of lips against his, warm and unexpectedly soft, the scratch of day-old stubble against his chin, weird, but good weird; the smell of motor oil and smoke and generic shampoo.
His pulse thunders in his ears, lungs burning because he doesn't trust himself to exhale. It takes everything he has to fight against the reflex to lean forward into Jason. He has to remind himself why this is the worst possible idea right now.
While his words remain locked in his throat, his lack of reaction must still speak volumes. Or maybe it's just Jason's own wits returning to him. Either way, he jerks back from Tim, expression morphing through several iterations—horror, confusion, and guilt.
"Shit," he says, voice hoarse. He takes a step back, eyes wide with panic. "Shit. You don't…you don't want this."
His wild gaze darts around, everywhere but Tim's face, before settling on something behind him that makes the color drain from his face. He takes another stumbling step backward.
Tim whips around, hoping to hell it's not Bruce behind them, and only feels a modicum less dismay to find Steph there instead. She's frozen in mid-step, arm in a sling and mouth gaping at what she's just walked in on.
"What the…?"
"Steph," Tim warns, trying to ignore the way his own cheeks become warm and his voice mimics a croak.
There's a muffled clatter behind him as Jason drops his helmet and practically trips over his boots backing away.
"I have to go," he chokes, still refusing to look at Tim.
He's already taken off by the time Tim manages to form the syllables of his name.
"What do you think you're doing?" Steph calls after him as Jason vanishes into the garage. "You can't leave!"
The only answer is a bike engine roaring to life, and the squeal of tires as Jason peels out of the Cave.
"Jason, no—!" Tim tries, knows it's a bad idea for some reason, but he's having trouble getting his thoughts to really connect. He can't make himself move, legs seemingly bolted to the stone floor.
Jason kissed him.
Jason kissed him.
It's s something he's only ever allowed himself to image in the farthest recesses of his mind, the place his thoughts wander just before he falls asleep and can't control their destination.
If this had happened three weeks ago, Tim would have been elated. Surprised and flustered, no doubt, but cautiously thrilled at the idea of Jason returning any kind of interest in him.
The hard truth is that he doesn't.
The kiss wasn't the result of Jason liking him, or even wanting to kiss him at all. It's the result of a poison swimming through his bloodstream, stealing his will and his judgment and forcing some pale imitation desire for Tim.
And Tim—
Tim is still revisiting the moment in his brain, committing to memory the sensation of Jason's mouth on his. His heart is still racing, the way it always does after a first kiss. He's had enough of them to recognize the feeling, but that's normally followed by warmth and relief and happiness.
Right now, all he feels are the competing urges to either sob or vomit. It's strong enough that he stumbles toward the stairs, past Steph's shocked and questioning gaze, and Bruce who stands at the head of the stairs.
"What's going on?" he demands.
Tim meets his gaze, wondering how he's supposed to answer that. On the one hand, they need to know Jason's condition may have progressed, but on the other, some part of him wants to keep what just happened as private as possible.
He shoots Steph a pleading look, and though she seems confused for a moment, it's barely noticeable.
"Jason left," she says.
"After all that, you allowed Todd to leave?" Damian demands, marching down to lurk behind Bruce.
"He didn't like being benched," Steph supplies. "Probably needed to go sulk."
"If his condition is as serious as you all seem to think, he should not be driving," Bruce warns. "I'm going after him, before he—"
"Oh, just let him go," a voice interrupts, voice exaggerating boredom. They all turn to the containment unit, where Dick is standing in his underwear, arms crossed. "He probably won't get himself killed. And hey, if he does, chances are he'll come back again. Evil doesn't stay dead."
Bruce's brows furrow. "Dick."
"Bruce. Are you going to let me out, or am I supposed to freeze my ass here in my underwear the rest of the night?"
"Do you still have the sudden urge to kill us all?" Damian challenges, trying for bravado but unable to completely hide his real unease.
"'' 'Sudden'?" Dick replies. "You talk like it's something I haven't dreamed about since Bruce stuck some new brat in my family's colors."
Damian clenches his fists, and Bruce says, "There's your answer."
"Oh, come on," the first Robin groans. "Like you haven't thought about it once or twice. How much easier your life would be if it was just like old times. Me and you and Babs."
The words hurt, but it's dulled somehow, both by the fact Tim knows this isn't Dick—not really—and by his own overwhelmed exhaustion. This whole situation is hitting him all over again and he's just…
Done.
He doesn't bother with explanations or excuses as he strides toward the rarely used elevator. He needs time. And space. To think.
Or not think, as it were.
Somehow, his thoughts remain blissfully empty and blank as he heads upstairs, tossing his gear on the ground once he's in his room. He gets in the shower, turns it on as hot as it can go and just stands in the spray for a while.
As the aches ease from his body, he carefully allows his thoughts to trickle back in, and to look at the situation objectively.
Jason kissed him, true.
But he didn't do it to hurt him, either intentionally—by doing so without his consent—or unintentionally—because he has no idea about Tim's feelings. Probably, he's out there somewhere panicking. Most likely there will be some time period spent self-flagellating before he tries to do something about the situation.
Hopefully, Bruce or Damian or someone has gone after him by now. If not, Tim will have to do it.
Just as soon as he eases a little more exhaustion from his bones and muscles.
When was the last time I slept? It might be going on two days now.
No wonder he was taken by surprise. Maybe if he had been well-rested, if his body wasn't a giant bruise from their ill-fated encounter with Cupid, his reaction time would have been better. He could have cut Jason off before he did anything, and he'd still be here.
He needs to go find him. Needs to venture back down to the Batcave, might even have to have another argument with Bruce about his fitness to be involved in the case.
Finding the confidence for that—to even fake for that—takes longer than he'd like.
By the time he finally gets out of the shower and into some civilian clothes, a half-hour has passed.
He's unsurprised to find Steph loitering against his bedroom door when he opens it, expression of determined concern on her face. He half-expected it to be Bruce—wonders how she convinced him to stay downstairs.
"I'm fine," he tells her automatically, hating how it sounds like it's being dragged from the depths of his throat.
"You're not fine. This whole situation is the definition of 'not fine'."
"We're all doing the best we can."
"If that were true, you wouldn't be hiding up here. He's really messing you up, isn't he?"
"It's not Dick's fault."
"I'm not talking about Dick." Steph pushes off the walls, arms crossed. "I know it's been weird for all of us seeing the big bad Red Hood's recent personality change, but it's obviously different with him being so fixated on you. And now that it's getting physical—"
"It's not getting physical, that was just…"
He can't find the words to explain.
"You weren't expecting it," she suggests. "It's okay. Honestly, I don't think he was expecting to do that either, considering how fast he ran out of there. But if that's happening now, he's only going to get worse."
"It's not Jason's fault either."
"I know that. But clearly things are escalating. I'm not always Batman's biggest fan, but I think he's right about this one."
"Steph…"
"Or, at least sit down as a group and figure out what to do, instead of you two butting heads the whole time."
"This is happening to Jason and it's happening to me. We're the ones who should get the final say on how to handle it, and it's been working so far."
"Yeah? Then why do you look like someone just kicked you in the guts repeatedly? I know you want to help him, but you don't have to force yourself to be okay with everything. No one would blame you if you needed to take a step back."
"I don't need to take a step back."
"Are you sure about that? From what I heard, this whole thing has been a gamble from the start. I'm still shocked Bruce let it go on as long as it has. It's not fair to either of you."
"Bruce isn't letting anything happen," Tim snaps with unexpected venom, irritation washing over him. "This is my choice and as much of Jason's choice as it can be right now. What you saw was just a…a momentary lapse. I'll—we'll adjust."
But there's a painful lump in his throat as he says that, and his thoughts flicker through images of Jason at his worst, at his most hateful—and contrast them with the easy-going, open and semi-flirtatious man he's gotten to see in the past few days.
The stark difference between the violent, brutal ways they've fought one another in the past, and the gentle slide of Jason's fingers against his cheek when he kissed him.
How do I adjust after that?
"I've haven't seen this much denial from you since Bruce's not-death," Steph says, narrowing her eyes at him. "Is there something else going on here that you're not telling us?"
"No," Tim says shortly and starts down the hall. "I've got stuff to do, so—"
"Oh, no you don't, I'm not buying the whole stoic-wannabe-Batman routine for a second!" she trails him down the hallway. "You only get like this when you're trying to keep people from noticing you're hurting. And I get the situation is confusing and all—"
"Leave it alone, Steph!"
"—but why the hell would Jason kissing you hurt? It'd be weird, sure, but it shouldn't bother you at all."
"Steph—"
"You're the one insisting it's not his fault, that he doesn't…really…feel…" Tim tries to keep walking, but then he's being spun around by the shoulder, and forced to look into wide, shocked blue eyes. "Are you hurting because it's not real?"
Tim clenches his jaw shut and does his best to meet her gaze—avoidance would just be a confirmation—but Steph's always been intuitive about things like this.
"Tim, you're not…you don't actually have feelings for Jason, do you?" she practically whispers, like she's afraid to say it too loud. As if that makes it real.
Story of my life there.
It would be so easy to deny it, to brush it off and tell Steph that she's reading too much into things. To pretend like it's just the situation that has him off his game. But today, he's exhausted, and mustering up the energy required to sell the story seems like too much.
Against his will, his eyes lower, and Steph releases him with a gasp.
He closes his eyes, waiting for judgment.
Instead, he feels her move closer, linking her fingers through his and tugging them until he looks up at her. The only thing on her face is concern.
"Tim," she begins, careful, "I know this is a bit of a head-trip, Jason being nice to everyone and all. Even I'm starting to like the guy a bit. But…"
"It's not like that."
"Okay then. What's it like?"
Still no judgment, just Stephanie expecting Tim to explain it to her in a way she can understand. They used to have so many arguments that he withheld information from her, and in the end of them, he was doing his best to get in the habit of walking her through his thought process—even if he failed most of the time.
Just as he's failing now in the oppressive silence between them.
He opens his mouth, tries to come up with the words, then closes it again because—honestly—he can't even explain it to himself sometimes.
There's a sharp intake of breath.
"Jesus." Steph presses her fingers to her lips in agitation. "I don't…I don't even know what to say to that."
"Don't say anything," Tim suggests, tired. "I'm well aware of the status quo and hoping for things to be different is a waste of time."
"But, Tim—"
"No," he cuts her off, and ducks away from her, suddenly needing to be away from the boxed-in feeling of her closeness. "It doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is saving Jason. Not just for me. This is—we have to save him, Steph. I can't—we can't lose him in his head again. Bruce can't."
And now Steph's expression is no longer telegraphing shock, but also pain and pity. Obviously, she knows that everything Tim just said is true.
"Tim…"
"Let's save the comments for after this mess is figured out, okay?" he suggests, trying for mild. He halfway manages it.
Steph looks like she'd like to protest, but instead nods. "Okay. I'm just worried."
"You don't have to be."
"Bull. Whatever our issues, you've always been in my corner. I'll never stop worrying about you."
And that's actually comforting.
He shoots her a tight smile of gratitude. "Come on. Enough moping, we've got two Bats that need to be helped now."
"My thoughts exactly," a gruff voice says behind them, and Tim winces, because he really should have expected Bruce to show up eventually.
Looks like Steph only managed to delay him a bit. God, did he hear any of that?
He starts to feel sick again.
"Lurk much?" Steph snaps.
"Stephanie, could you give us a few minutes?"
She makes a face and then shrugs. "You've got three before I go get Alfred."
She disappears.
Tim and Bruce regard each other for a few seconds, both tense.
"How long have you been standing there?" Tim asks, trying not to sound as nervous as he feels.
"About thirty seconds," Bruce replies, and Tim mentally revisits his conversation with Steph. He doesn't think he said anything too incriminating. His stomach unclenches a bit. "Your concentration isn't up to your usual standards."
Tim's mouth thins.
So, it's time for the not so constructive criticism, is it?
But to his surprise, Bruce suddenly looks apologetic.
"Sorry. Given your concern for Jason…for me, I can understand it. I know you're only trying to help as best you can. And I…" he hesitates, clearly chewing on something that's difficult for him, "…could have handled my earlier reaction better."
"You think?" Tim can't help needling.
Bruce simply nods, doesn't elaborate.
Of course, that's as far as he'll go. Still, for Batman, that's a lot.
"Thanks," Tim says after a beat. "And if you heard what I said—I meant it. I won't let us lose Jason again. Or Dick."
Bruce nods again and then squares his shoulders. "Barbara is on her way here."
Awesome segue, Bruce…
Outwardly, he simply remarks, "That's rare."
"I contacted her. Since she wasn't there when Dick was hit by Cupid's arrow, he should have no problem with her. Chances are she can work with him to try to figure out a solution while we focus on Jason."
"I bet she loved being relegated to babysitting her ex."
"I would do it, but I need to keep Damian occupied," Bruce says. "He's taking Dick's...current attitude…harder than he'd like to pretend."
I get that. It's not a great feeling when the mentor you've been low-key hero-worshipping looks at you like you're dirt.
"She wouldn't have agreed, but she has some information for Jason and can't get in contact with him."
Tim frowns. "His comms are off, then?"
"Yes. And he seems to have found and destroyed all my trackers. Do you have any on him?"
"No. It…felt like another breach of privacy, given the circumstances," Tim murmurs, trying not to see the exasperation Bruce tries to hide.
"Trackers or no, Jason's always had a tendency—or rather a talent—for avoiding Batman when he wants to," he says after a moment. "Given his condition, he may not actively try to hide from you."
It's a reversal from what he was saying before, but Tim gets the sense that Bruce is trying here. Trying to trust him, despite his earlier misgivings.
What's going on with Dick must be getting to him. He's used to Jason being the one he has to worry about, but not anyone else.
Tim considers this. "Then I'll find him."
"In the meantime, we can hear what Barbara has to say."
Tim doesn't point out that the information was for Jason because on the off chance it helps Jason, it's better to learn sooner than later.
Another thought occurs to him.
"Did Diana ever get back to you? When you were on your way back you said she hadn't yet, but…?"
"No." Bruce's expression becomes shadowed. "I'm starting to think there's a reason for it."
"You think that's tied in?"
"We're dealing one Olympian god—possibly two. Of course, it has something to do with it."
"Are Clark or any of the other League members dealing with wayward gods?"
"Nothing from what I've found out. The Titans?"
"Not that I know of."
"Did you get in contact with Wonder Girl?"
"No. Not yet. I can do that now. Maybe she's got some ideas about helping Dick, too."
"Hm." Bruce nods, and heads back downstairs. He pauses, then turns to Tim with an indecipherable expression. "I realize we haven't been the closest in the past few months. But I…am available to you if you ever need to talk. About anything."
"Uh. Okay?"
Bruce watches him another five seconds and then descends the stairs.
What's that supposed to mean?
Tim really doesn't want to think too closely about that right now, he has enough anxiety-inducing thoughts beating around his skull. Instead, he reaches for his phone and speed-dials her, flipping the phone around to face him.
"Hey, stranger," she says as she picks up on the fourth ring. The screen wavers as she seemingly props it up on something, allowing her to keep eating; apparently he caught her in the middle of supper.
Breakfast? What time is it even?
"I thought you'd dropped off the face of the planet. Did you finally finish up that issue with Eros?"
"Not even close," Tim sighs, scraping his hand down his face. He's going to need to shave soon.
"Uh-oh. Why do I get the feeling I'm not going to like this?"
"You probably won't. Please hold all well-deserved scolding until the end."
"What happened."
"So, we tried to get the bow and arrows back…"
"And it didn't go as planned?"
"Worse. Nightwing kind of…got tagged."
"You're kidding," Cassie groans. "Which arrow? Though either one has the potential to be horrible."
Tim snorts. "As uncomfortable as it would have been, I think we'd all rather deal with overly amorous Dick Grayson than the asshole that's down in the containment unit."
"That's the trouble when it's someone you care about," she agrees. "They always know exactly where to twist the knife. Or arrow, in this case. Speaking of, that's what this is."
"Huh?"
"The arrow he got stuck with? It has to be removed."
"There is no arrow."
"Well, you wouldn't be able to see it. It exists on a different plane. Only Eros, or the person wielding his bow and arrow, would be able to see or touch it. It's why even the gods could never stop him from making them fall in or out of love with someone unless they convinced him to do it."
"That's not encouraging. Only Eros…" Tim trails off, thinking of the winged terror in his base, and of the trouble he's caused.
Of Jason moving into his personal space, pressing his mouth against his—
"What about someone infected with Eros blood?" he blurts out, shaking his face in an attempt to get his cheeks to cool off.
"I mean, maybe, no one's ever tried, but—" Cassie cuts off and narrows her eyes at Tim. "What do you mean someone infected by Eros blood? Are you going to bring some civilian in and try to get them to fix Nightwing? Because that will only get someone hurt."
Tim shifts, uncomfortable. "Okay, so…remember how I didn't really tell you who it was?"
"Yes…"
"It…might have been Red Hood."
Cassie lets out a string of curse words, some of which may actually be Kryptonian.
Looks like Kon's rubbing off on her…
"Just because Batman doesn't tell his team all the details until he's ready, doesn't mean you get to do the same thing!" she hisses. "This is serious!"
"I realize that."
"No, you don't!" That guy's crazy!"
"It's complicated."
"Complicated?! I've seen the footage, Tim! When he came back and did his rounds messing with everyone in your family, he almost killed you! He injured and incapacitated our friends!"
"I'm not disputing that."
"He doesn't show restraint, just throws himself into things without caring about the consequences—"
"Debatable."
"—and has already shown obsessive tendencies. I don't even want to imagine what he's like now that he's been infected with…with erotic obsession for someone!"
"I don't have to imagine, and it's fine, we're handling it."
"You mean protecting some poor civilian from their brand new murderous stalker?"
"There aren't any civilians involved, so you can relax."
"No civi—you mean it's a cape he's obsessed with?" Her voice becomes suspicion. "Is it one of you?" When he still doesn't reply, the suspicion turns to something dangerous. "Tim…Tim, please tell me that it's not you that he's focused on."
"It's not his fault—" he begins.
"That's it!" Cassie throws up her hands. "I'm rounding everyone up and we're coming to you."
"No, you're not!" Tim protests, panicking a little because he's already got Steph who's going to be watching him like something about to break. The Titans known him just as well, they're going to figure out the truth just as fast, and he doesn't want them preemptively crippling Jason.
Unless he can stop her, he's going to have a lot of explaining to do—and not just to her.
⁂
Jason isn't entirely sure how he gets out of the Cave, let alone without being tailed by anyone. His normally stellar senses are clogged instead by overwhelming guilt and shame, thoughts seesawing back and away from the fact he just kissed Tim Drake.
He had tasted like coffee and blood from a split lip, and damn it, Jason shouldn't have done that when he was hurt—
I shouldn't have done it at all!
The bike beneath him wobbles in a way it shouldn't as he speeds down the deserted road without an actual destination in mind, just the persistent need to be somewhere that's elsewhere.
The world around him flickers, substituting the damp and gritty pavement with a dark room then sand-swept stone walls and then an angry, roiling ocean and then a sunlit field. His head pounds with the high-pitched cackle of his nightmares, which morphs into the cheering of hundreds of voices and then screaming.
He feels the strain of his muscles as he swings a sword, the press of his armored back against that belonging to the man who is an extension of himself, tastes blood and dirt in his mouth and the furious joy of a good fight.
Bristol's gloomy darkness flashes back and forth to a battlefield, bodies, and steel colliding, to the inside of a canvas tent and his hand is on Tim's cheek, the same as it was in the Batcave.
"Noble son of Menoetius, man after my own heart," he says, and Tim wraps his own fingers around his hand, brings Jason's palm to his lips.
No, not Tim. That wasn't his name, it was—
Jason only just comes back to himself in time to pull over on the shoulder of the road instead of plowing into an oncoming red pickup truck. He staggers from the bike, ignoring the thunk as it falls to the ground, has to put his head between his legs.
"Hey, buddy—you okay? You just came out of nowhere—"
"'m fine!" Jason gasps, backing away from whoever is trying to talk to him. His vision continues to blur and double, juxtaposing night with the day, present with the dream he can't escape.
Moonlight over the city, the colorless adobe buildings illuminated in its path. Sounds of raucous laughter and music from the inside palace, but outside on the balcony, it is calm and he is at peace.
"I conquer everything, and it would mean nothing without you. In this world, you alone are the one I trust."
"And you are everything I care for," the dark-eyed man beside him replies.
"No, his eyes are blue," Jason murmurs.
"What was that? Hey man, did you hit your head?"
He stares across the manor ballroom until it catches the strange kid's attention, grinning when the boy's eyes widen at him. Their color is startling, and they take up practically his whole face.
Jason's about to motion for him to the edge of the reception area—hanging out with another kid, even a little one, would break up the monotony of the evening—when Bruce's hand falls hard on his shoulder.
"Time to make an exit, son," he says, and from the distracted way he's talking, Jason doesn't even need to look out the window to see the sky.
Jason gasps, clutching at his head as it throbs like it's been trapped in a vice. There's burning pain, not unlike being emerged in a Lazarus pit like something is being forced into him. Only this time, it's not life, but—
A green dale, unnaturally green and clean, with flowers more vibrant than anything he has ever seen. Birds sing in harmonious tones, fly against the sky that is impossibly blue, perfect wispy clouds gathered around alpine mountains in the distance.
Sitting against a tree, familiar form cradled against his chest. He feels a wistful sigh. "I would spend eternity with you if I could."
"I'm going to call for an ambulance," the stranger says, and somehow that cuts through the whirlwind of emotion and image crowding Jason's head right then.
"No," he says, straightens up. "No…I'm okay…"
This time he manages to push back the influx of thoughts, seizing on every bit of training he's ever had in clearing his mind. The images are still coming, but Jason can think around them now.
Not sure how long for, though.
He squints at the man, trying to assess how much trouble it will be if he has to knock him out and run.
Athletic build, blond hair in a brush cut, red tattoos all up his arms of sun and flames, which Jason can see because he's standing there in nothing but a wife-beater in mid-November. In fact, he kind of looks like someone waiting around for the next Burning Man.
"Are you sure?"
"I'm fine," Jason snaps and starts for his bike.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, what are you doing?" the guy demands. "You can't just get back up on that thing, not if you've got a head injury or something."
"No…"
"You're in a bad way, man, take the help."
"Listen, pal, if you don't back off—"
Jason hears a motor revving up in the distance and tenses, visions of being followed by the other Bats. He destroyed the tracker on the bike before he took it, but that's never a guarantee.
"Never mind," he switches tacks. "You're right. I need to go."
He intends to go on foot, to disappear into the shadows and tree line, but the guy is pointing at his truck.
"I can drive you to the hospital if you don't want to wait for an ambulance."
"No hospital," Jason replies, then forces himself to think past the blurring visions in his mind. "But…there's somewhere I can get help."
It's the last place he wants to go, but he also knows it's the only place he stands a chance of getting some answers. Even if there will be a lot of smug posturing beforehand.
"I need to get to the East End."
"Hop in," the guy says.
"Fine. But you try anything—"
"Relax, dude, you're not my type."
"Still. Full disclosure: if you try anything on me, I'll stab you in the neck," Jason says—or thinks he says. Everything has a decidedly dreamlike quality right now.
"Fair," the stranger laughs. His sunny disposition should be raising flags right now, but Jason gets the feeling that's genuine. "So, were you on your way to a costume party or something?"
Jason blinks, looks down at himself, and realizes he's still in his gear, minus the helmet he left on the floor of the cave. The red bat seems larger, more menacing than it should be.
Instantly recognizable to the average Gothamite.
He pauses, one foot in the truck, narrows his eyes. "You're not from around here, are you?"
"Nope," is the cheerful reply. "Drove up from Florida to visit some family."
"Right."
"No offense, but so far I'm not impressed," he goes on as Jason slowly eases into the passenger seat. "The sun doesn't really show up here much, does it?"
"You want sun, go to Metropolis," Jason mutters, as always a bit defensive about his city.
"Oh, I've been there. Big Superman fan."
"Of course you are…"
"I'm Paul, by the way."
"Good for you. Can we get going?"
"Point the way."
As it turns out, he doesn't actually do much pointing. Paul apparently has an uncanny sense of direction, because Jason doesn't recall giving him any directions. Although to be fair, he doesn't recall very much of the drive because the minute he's sitting down and the scenery is flying past, his mind goes back to assaulting him with images and sounds and feelings he can't explain.
Before, the dreams were like the distant recollection of feeling and sensation, but now they images won't leave his mind.
"In life, I sought your heart and won—I followed you into battle, and into death—I follow wherever you will go here in this place that is no place. Do you truly believe that in any life, I would not find you? That I would not be drawn to you? That I would not love you?"
It's him, he knows that much, and that's Tim, but at the same time, it's not. It's like watching from behind someone else's eyes and yet like long-buried childhood memories suddenly making an appearance.
Paul is humming beside him, unaware of the tumult in Jason's mind. Something about all this should be sending alarms blaring in Jason's head, but it just doesn't register.
"Should the time come where the gods decree we return to the land of the living, it won't matter if we return at opposite sides of the world, as a lowly servant to the stately king, as warriors from enemy kingdoms. We will always be reunited. And we will always be ourselves. And that is enough to make me confident we would be worthy of Elysium again and again."
"We're about to enter the Bowery," Paul announces. "Least that's what the sign says. I assume that means something to you."
"Yeah," Jason says, looking around in confusion. "That's a lot faster than I expected."
"What can I say? I got some powerful horses under the hood of this thing," the other man says, patting the dash.
Jason finds himself nodding.
He has Paul drop him off a block or two away from Tim's apartment, waves away any attempts to go with him, and at his first opportunity disappears into the familiar alleyways without a backward glance.
He doesn't want to risk anyone knowing where Tim lives.
Normally he's not bothered too much by anyone possibly recognizing him—no civilian identity means he doesn't have to worry about his enemies tracking him down that way—but Tim's been under public scrutiny enough in the past year or so without a known vigilante showing up at his front door.
It's just the scoop old Vicki would kill for.
His lips curl in disgust, and he briefly entertains the thought of tracking the reporter down and teaching her a lesson about messing with his—
"Stop it," he orders himself.
He finds his way into Tim's place the same way as he did before, barely notices the trip down into the depths of chrome and computer. His fingers itch, wanting to reach for someone who isn't there, and his mouth still tastes like Tim.
Or does it?
He's not sure if this is from now, or from the—
Memories? Is that what they are? And if so, whose?
He shakes that off. All that matters is getting to the person that can answer his question, that can tell him what's happening to him.
Eros is sitting cross-legged in his cell, using an empty Big Belly Burger cup to play Quarters with a gold coin. He glances up when Jason appears in front of him, and his eyes widen in appreciation.
"Oh, you are handsome under that ugly red monstrosity," he purrs, gaze roving over Jason's features without apology.
He ignores it, instead growls out, "Something's happening to me."
Eros freezes.
"It's different from before, from the…from fixating on Tim. I'm seeing—I hear whispers, it's like I'm remembering something. Another life. Lives. But they're not mine."
"Fucking finally," Eros groans in unquestionable relief. He puffs his cheeks out in irritation, "I thought you were never going to wake up."
Not the response Jason was expecting.
"Wake up? What the hell do you mean?"
"I mean, welcome back to the land of the living, your highness. You took your sweet-ass time about it."
Jason gapes, confused for a half-second and then hit with sudden clarity.
"Peleides."
"I have to admit, for being the work of the only sculptor the king has ever trusted with his likeness—"
"All of us who stand here are kings and the vassals of kings—"
"You know that bastard Darius is holed up across the Euphrates trying to dictate to me?"
"Peleides."
"—it doesn't look a thing like him."
"I was king," he realizes dimly. "I was…"Achilleus. Alexandros. "…basileus."
"Knew you'd get there eventually," Eros nods.
It takes longer than Jason would like for him to navigate through the onslaught of memories, to parse what the winged-man is saying.
"You. You were expecting me to wake up?"
"Expecting? Darlin', I orchestrated it," Eros replies smugly. "You think getting tagged with my blood was an accident? That took exact planning and timing on my part."
What.
"When my warehouse got broken into by those Russian ruffians and then you two muttonheads dropped in, I recognized your souls right away."
"Right, because you're a god," Jason deadpans.
"That's one reason," Eros admits. "The other is that I was the one that brought you two together the first time around."
"…What?"
"You really think the golden-haired, princeling son of a goddess would even look at some minor frontier king's cast-off son without a push? It took preparation to put him in your path—and then, because you're both always stubborn assholes about it, I had to bring out the arrows."
"I thought you said people don't need your help," Jason says tightly.
"They don't, normally. But with explosive chemistry like Achilleus and Patroklus, it would end up one of two ways: bitterest of rivals or greatest of lovers."
And that…that tracks, actually. It doesn't make it easier to process.
"And why the hell do you get to choose how that goes?" Jason demands. Somehow, it feels less like a violation being fated to be enemies with a person than to be in love with them.
"You know why. There were big things in the making. Things Achilleus had to be alive for, and if Patroklus became his greatest enemy, he wouldn't have made it out of Phthia."
"Bullshit."
"Is it really?" Eros simpers. "Are you going to tell me if Patroklus—or whatever he's called today—didn't take it in his head to take you out, you wouldn't be dead six ways from Sunday?"
Jason opens his mouth to tell him just that, and then pauses.
Because…
Tim was already a planner before he became Robin if everything Talia told him is true. He tangles with people like Cluemaster and fucking Ra's al Ghul on the same level; the latter even puts his intellect and detective skills on the same level as Batman.
Hell, Damian's been sulking for a while about some kind of hit-list for heroes and rogues alike.
If he didn't religiously toe Bruce's line, Tim could probably be as cold as Amanda Waller.
Jason swallows, imagining Tim at his most cool and calculating, intense eyes transposed across three separate lives. His mouth begins to go dry and he has to fight back the shudder of interest that ripples through his body.
"Along with sending you off your head for bird boy, my blood also nixes that pesky little side-effect of you not being able to remember your previous lives," Eros continues.
"But why?"
"I chose to wake you because of who you were. The strongest warrior of old. Determined. Reckless when it comes to the one you love. Those qualities don't disappear when you're born into a new body, you know."
"And obviously you want something."
Eros's entire demeanor shifts in an instant, going from smug pain in the ass to cold and dangerous. "I want my wife returned to me."
Whatever Jason was expecting, it wasn't that. There's a beat where he repeats it again in his head, trying to make sure he heard right and momentarily thinking it's such an easy request.
Until he remembers.
"You said she was dead."
"In the technical sense, yes. The insecure drama queen that is my mother sent her on a quest to collect a container of beauty from the Queen of the Underworld. Someone replaced it with Stygian Sleep, which consigned her soul to the darkest, loneliest part of the Underworld."
Jason stares, once again wondering if he heard right. "And you want me to get her back. Are you shittin' me?"
"I shit you not."
"How the hell do you expect me to do that?"
"Funny you should mention 'hell'," Eros says with an unkind smile. "Obviously, you have to die first. A particular kind of dead. The kind that, under certain conditions, can be reversible."
Conversations from the past days flicker in Jason's memory and a particular sticking point that the Family has been very divided on.
"Stygian Sleep," he guesses, a pit forming in his stomach.
"Exactly. And here I thought the pretty bird was the smart half of your little duo."
Jason grits his teeth at the reference to Tim, the infection in his blood and a few millennia's worth of latent and now remembered possessiveness boiling within him. He toys briefly with the idea of opening the damn cage and exorcising his frustrations on Eros.
The smug bastard must sense the intent because his smirk grows larger. "I'm game for a tumble if you are, sweetheart. But neither of us really has time for a quickie right now."
"Don't flatter yourself," Jason bites out, breathing through his nose until he can get his focus back on target. The idea of messing around with Eros helps, actually; the raw disgust at being with anyone other than Tim is like a bucket of ice water, dampening his fury. "So, how does me dying bring your wife back?"
"Being exposed to the Sleep will bind you to the same corner of the Underworld as her. With the right talisman in your possession, you can switch places with her."
"I switch places with her? Or my soul switches places with her?"
Eros honest to fucking god claps his hands in delight. "Hah! You catch on quick. Yes, she'll need a body, since hers is long gone. With your soul no longer taking up space, the swap will be easy."
The implication hangs in the air. Jason isn't about to just leave it.
"And I wouldn't be coming back."
Eros shrugs. "Nope."
"Then I'm not doing it. There's no benefit for anyone else but you, and I don't just do shit for free."
"Ah, but you see, this is why I needed you to be awake," Eros purrs. "Because the meathead you are now might not have anything he'd be willing to sacrifice his own soul for…but the meathead you were definitely did."
Jason's gut pulls tight; he suddenly knows where this is going.
"If you do this favor for me, a god, I can ensure that your beloved is guaranteed an eternity of bliss once he dies. Hades owes me a favor I've never cashed in."
"If he owes you a favor, why don't you get him to get your wife back," Jason growls.
"You don't think I tried that? Even the god of Death is bound by the Styx."
Jason thinks that's awfully convenient, but he also knows it to be true. His mother—no, Achilleus' mother—taught him the strength and unyielding nature of the River. Even the gods are unable to break oaths sworn by that flowing water and considering the power they have—considering they can influence where a soul ends up after their human death—that limits them considerably.
Jason swallows.
"And if I still say no?"
The cold, forbidding glint is back in his eyes. "Oh, the possibilities are endless. Maybe I'll weaken the bonds between the two of you and send your love into the arms of an enemy."
Jason is hit by a rather chilling, nauseating image of Tim sitting at the knee of Ra's al Ghul.
"I told you all I need is a certain chemistry between two people," Eros goes on, "and I'm sure there's someone out there that would be happy to take and twist Patroklus or Hephaestion or whatever he's called now until he's so sullied he'll be sent straight to Tartarus. And there's no reincarnating from there. So he'll be in Tartarus and you'll be pining away in the Mourning Fields." He pretends to consider it. "Of course, maybe you guys won't find my diviners before then. In which case, things get messy. Assuming the world doesn't descend into a frenzy of fucking, I may just use him until the flesh falls from his bones and he's too exhausted to take another breath."
Jason slams his fist into the glass. "You touch him, I'll fucking rip your head off."
"No, you won't. You'll be dead by this point. And he still won't end up in the same place as you when you both die."
"If I kill you now, it won't really matter."
"Killing a god…another one-way trip to Tartarus, and you still don't save him any pain. Face it, Helmet Head, I've got you by the proverbial balls. At least if you cooperate, you get something out of it instead of royally shafted."
Jason's hands twitch toward his gun holster, rage blurring his vision for a moment at both the implicit and veiled threats. Beyond the overwhelming sensation of memories trickling back, and the inexorable pull of his thoughts toward Tim and the growing, grasping need to be close to him, it's hard to evaluate the situation from every angle. One thing is for sure, however, he's stuck.
Either Jason accepts this, thus guaranteeing Tim a peaceful afterlife—which, given the amount of shit he's gone through would be a hell of a reward—or Jason can tell the entitled god of Love to fuck off.
And then die an agonizing death from going mad or taking the easy way out by shooting myself. Neither of which is a good death, if there can be such a thing.
Neither option ends with Jason's afterlife being anything resembling peaceful.
Not that he ever expected anything like that, even the first time he died.
Or third time, I guess.
If all of this only involved him, it would be an easy decision to make. He's never had an issue with throwing himself off the deep end of a bad situation—in any life—but it's not just about him.
"If we're going to be separated anyhow, it's no different if it's in paradise or rotting on the side of the Styx," he says dully.
"Well, if that's what you want to consign yourselves to," Eros allows. "Or rather, what you want to consign your lover to. Imagine, fair Patroklus wasting away his eternity as a shade, crowding for space along the river, his only highlight when some wet-behind-the-ears comes looking for council. Lapping up blood from the dirt like a dog."
The metaphorical knife twists and Jason has to fight down the urge to vomit.
"No."
"Then, there you have it. Easy choice then."
Jason swallows.
Tim is innocent in all of this, in that he doesn't remember any other life but this one. He doesn't know what they once were. But when his life ends, whether in the pursuit of Batman's never-ending crusade, or eighty years old lying in bed, he's going to wake up in the Underworld and remember everything.
If Jason doesn't help Eros, he's in for an eternity of misery.
Imagining the destroyed expression on his face—on Hephaestion, on Patroklus—makes Jason feel as if someone has shoved a knife into his own heart. Neither of them wanted to be separated; an eternity together was the whole point of making their pact, of trying to achieve Elysium three times.
It's a huge decision.
Thousands of years of a pact to be together, and he's contemplating breaking it. He can't just decide this for both of them without Tim—without Patroklus—knowing the stakes, and without hearing his advice.
"Is there a way to wake him, too?" he asks roughly. "To get his memories back?"
"Same way as you," Eros replies. "Mix blood—you've got me in your veins now, so you can even do that yourself if it's one of your kinks."
Jason shudders, at the implication and the information. That would just put Tim in the same boat as Jason, losing his mind and bound for a grisly death.
"Screw that. I'll just tell him," he decides. "He's heard stranger things than that. I'll explain it all to him."
It won't be exactly like telling Patroklus, but they're the same person deep down.
"Sure, that'll work," Eros muses. "Or he might think you're so far gone into your obsession with him that you've become delusional. He might even lock you up in digs like this, and then you can be useless to everyone." He shrugs. "He'll still be of use to me, though. So do whatever you want. Wake him up, don't wake him up, I'll still have someone to offer my deal to."
Jason's stomach sinks, because it's true.
Patroklus—Hephaestion—Tim; he's always been a self-sacrificing little shit, especially when it comes to him. If he thinks it will save Jason—save Achilleus or Alexandros—he'll throw himself on the metaphorical sword.
And Tim's been stabbed enough for three lifetimes.
The men Jason was before would hate him for doing this. He thinks they would fight the gods themselves, bank on pride and anger to enact their will. They were heroes in their own mind, not fearing mortal challengers or death itself. It's the fundamental difference between them; Jason didn't grow up as a king that was never given limits. He was born in the dirt and has been kicked back there repeatedly in his life. It's taught him exactly what situations are worth it—whether the collateral damage is worth it—and when to regroup, or retreat.
He can't see a way of winning this one. And only one scenario has a half-way acceptable outcome.
"I don't give a shit about what Achilleus or Alexandros want, because I ain't them," Jason snarls. "Barring a few surround-sound memories, they're about as real to me as the kid I was before I died. A memory, that's it."
The growing infection within him burns at the idea of separating himself from Tim any longer; he's already feeling lightheaded and breathless at their distance right now. He ignores it while he can.
Eros bares his teeth. "That your final answer?"
"I'll do it," Jason tells him at last. "I put that kid through enough. I owe him. At least if he checks out of this life early like I did, I'll know he's going somewhere better."
Even if it is without me.
The invisible vice around his lungs tightens.
"Whatever helps you sleep at night, darlin'," Eros replies, striding over to the drawer where he's been getting his food. He opens it, tosses something inside with a clatter. "Keep this on you. It has to be on you when you succumb to the Sleep, otherwise, you and Psyche will both be trapped there and everyone's fucked. And not in the good way."
Warily, Jason opens the drawer on the outside and picks up the small, flat gold coin.
"What is this? Drachma for the ferryman?"
He's only being a little sarcastic; at this point, he wouldn't be surprised.
"Sort of the opposite. Too complicated for your monkey brain to understand," Eros dismisses. "Just don't lose it. For your boyfriend's sake."
Jason's fist closes around the coin.
He tries not to wonder if Tim, or the men he was before, will forgive him for this.
⁂⁂⁂
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